


Mrs. Robinson Needs To Stop

by ScurvyOrange



Series: Main Set [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 14:15:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7055911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScurvyOrange/pseuds/ScurvyOrange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miss Pauling is tasked with picking up the first new hire for TF Industries in June of 1968.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mrs. Robinson Needs To Stop

**Author's Note:**

> See the SFM render for this over here! http://scurvyorangesfm.tumblr.com/post/145252540673/look-i-finally-finished-a-fic-have-a-render-for
> 
> EDIT, January 10th 2017: Retconned the names of Scout and Medic due to them being revealed in the latest comic. Ludwig can and has been used as a first and last name throughout history, but due to Medic being called MISTER Ludwig, I went with a last name.
> 
> This is the first of hopefully many 'short' fics with these characters. I aim to write and release them chronologically, but I won't make any binding promises to that.
> 
> Also, yes, I named the Mercs. 
> 
> Do I take the naming seriously? Not entirely. I apologize if you dislike some names given, I understand that even if I know no one by these names, you readers might, and that might ruin it for you. Sorry in advance if that happens, but I can't help that.
> 
> Will they always be called by their names? No. This is probably going to be the only instance of it. The rest of the fics will have them be called by their class name unless referred to by name in dialogue.

Six AM Monday morning. Pale sunlight shone in through the glass walls of the mostly empty New Mexican airport. Miss Pauling, the relatively newly hired Administrative Assistant, was sitting comfortably in a row of barren chairs, idly paging through employee files for the company. She had been told to pick up the first of many new hires that day, expecting the plane to arrive at six-thirty, but arrived to find it had been delayed. For how long, she didn’t know, but she was told it should be there before seven. She doubted it, but since this was her only task at the moment, she might as well catch up on some important information. At the very least, every file had a small picture of the person in it taken at the time of the interview. This would certainly help when the plane arrived.

Whoever it was she was picking up, she prefered to know their back story before getting in a small car and sitting with them awkwardly for the two hour drive back to the base they would be living at with the other mercenaries. Best to start at the top, then.

Rosemary Acothley. Preferred to go by the name Rosie. Twenty-four years old, schizophrenic, suffered severe hallucinations where they thought the world was made of candy and rainbows. Prefers to keep her face covered and will only speak to certain people, which is up to her own discretion who. She had been picked up by police where she lived in Monument Valley- presumed Navajo Nation, though she never answered the query on that- after burning down someone’s house while they were still in it. A TF Industries representative happened to also be at the station at the time and managed to pull strings until her record was cleared and she was released in to their custody two months ago. She was currently living at an undisclosed location here in New Mexico. Pauling’s own handwriting from earlier detailed that they wouldn’t be available until tomorrow due to ‘complications in packing belongings’. Tomorrow was still earlier than some of the other mercenaries, though. They had been hired as the resident Pyromaniac, usually shortened to just Pyro.

Mikhail Asimov. More likely to go by Misha. Speaks English semi-fluently but is generally quiet anyway, likely due to a fondness for reading, what with the PhD in literature that he had. Fifty-three years old, hailing from Khabarovsk Krai. Didn’t mention much in the interview other than loving to shoot the gun he custom built himself. Was found to have three sisters and a mother that he looks after, and his father is deceased. They had previously been held in a gulag when his sisters were very young. Not much was known about him other than TF finding him doing freelance mercenary work and deciding he would be good for the team. He was gradually making his way from Russia to New Mexico on his own time, but politely had called Pauling a week ago to explain that he intended to take ‘route that is most beautiful’ and that he didn’t know when he would arrive, but promised it would be within the week, and that he would call ahead of time. Pauling didn’t expect any trouble from him. Hired as the Heavy Weapons Guy (per his own request he be called ‘guy’ since it sounded friendlier), oft shortened to Heavy.

Dell Conagher. He had worked for the Mann brothers before. Fifty-four years old, from Texas, had eleven PhDs in science and had worked ten years in the oil industry. Said in his interview the worst part about him was either his height or his temper, but that he wasn’t sure. Classically amicable, as was expected of a Texan of course. He had invented many of the machines Mann Co. currently held the patents to, including but not limited to the Respawn System, Sentry Gun Mechanical Firing Device, Dispense-O-Matic 9000 Provisions Dispenser, and Light Anomaly Teleport System. He was the only mercenary that was for sure known to have worked extensively with australium, which was assumed to be the reason why he looked to be more in his forties than fifties. Was expected to get along fine with everyone on base. Pauling felt relieved to know they seemed to have a natural balancer for the nine very different people coming in. He was hired for this job as the resident Engineer.

Tavish Finnegan DeGroot. Self-described ‘black Scottish cyclops’. Twenty-nine years old, from Ullapool, held down many jobs at once due to family tradition. He sported a generally friendly attitude, though was currently suffering through a nasty bout of alcoholism. Upon receiving this job he promised to only drink in the off hours and never right before battle. And to only sip during battle. And only a couple sips. No, really, I promise. Cross me ‘eart and hope to lose me other eye. Especially if any damn wizards are involved. Pauling wasn’t sure if she could expect trouble from him... between other people, hopefully not, due to his friendly nature, but due to the alcoholism... who knows. Hired as the crew’s Demolitions Expert, or Demoman, or just Demo.

Jeremy Finch. A note at the top in someone else’s handwriting- probably belonging to one of Saxton Hale’s two new assistants, Maxwell Reddy and Cecil Bidwell, whom she had both picked up yesterday after they flew in from London and Saskatchewan respectively - read ‘warning: do not let talk at length’ with ‘not’ underlined about six times. Twenty-three, the youngest of the bunch, not counting Pauling herself. Hyperactive, has slightly low self esteem but covers it by pretending to have a huge ego. One note claimed ‘this really doesn’t feel like a charade to me. I think he’s normal with an ego, not self-conscious with an act.’ The only other description of his temperance was ‘he’s girl crazy and talks so much I hope that medic cuts his tongue off’. Throughout the document various parts were crossed out after the fact, with a side note of ‘x-ed out things turned out to not be important in the long run. The interview was six hours long’.

Well, no wonder.

The gist of the important things left in the interview listed that his mother was a spy- ah, yes, she had helped find the spy they hired when she turned down the job herself- that he had seven older brothers, and that he left home in Boston at 18 for no particular reason (went on for several minutes that yes, he was in good standing with his family) and traveled the country at random. There was an abridged story of settling in a newly built, albeit cheap, house outside Vegas after winning a bit of money in the city. He had been living there when he was contacted to join the company. He didn’t appear to have a history with killing people; a history of delinquency, yes, but nothing more than that. He was hired as their Scout.

The next file was an incomplete one on his mother, Marion Finch. She had been offered the first job with the company six months previous, as their spy, but turned it down due to her not wanting to leave her post as the person running the freelance agency in Boston. She kindly tracked down their current spy for free upon hearing his name, however. It took up until only the past week to find him, but Pauling got the feeling it would have taken someone else much longer. A handwritten note from one of Hale’s assistants claimed the company had received threats from her should anything happen to her youngest son.

Pauling paused a moment to take a look around. Six-forty-five. The terminal was still relatively empty. She went back to rifling through the paperwork.

Stephan Ludwig, the man hired despite not having a legitimate medical license. Hell, according to his interview he had forged it himself. Forty-five years old, born in Stuttgart then raised in Rottenburg, he had never attended medical school, but according to the notes still ‘knew what he was doing, and is incredibly brilliant, but entirely morally evil’. Outwardly appearing slightly overly cheerful. A crossed out note said ‘easily mistaken with glee at the appearance of a dead body’, then in a non-crossed out note, ‘he read my note. Not mistaken. It’s glee’. He claimed he had a temper but none arose during the interview. He had a similar situation to their resident firebug, having been saved from arrest in Vermont due to an incident involving his pet doves and a dentistry office next door to his apartment. Some notes were added at the end that he was indeed not a Nazi, that it had been thoroughly researched, and that his family had fled Germany at the start of the war due to having ambiguous Jewish roots that they didn’t want to take chances with. His brilliance had been proven recently when TF Industries bought up a new patent for a liquid serum that healed any and all wounds almost instantly that he had invented recently. He stated it worked best when put in to a capsule and taken like a pill. He also said he had recently found a way to vaporize it in a way that it could be breathed in, in which case it worked even slightly faster, but that he hadn’t found a way to make it portable yet. He took on the job of being the team’s Medic.

Hugo Lefevre, their current spy. Forty-four years old, hailing from ‘just France’ when asked. Marion provided more information than this, which was used to pry him during his own interview. Originally from Roussillon, he spoke four languages, with Catalan being his first. He claimed his best skills were tied between ‘anything to do with knives except cooking’ and copying other people’s voices on command. A handwritten note added ‘he said he burned part of his house down boiling water, then added he was kidding when he saw my expression. I don’t think he was’. He proved to be ambidextrous due to being forced to write right-handed in school while naturally being left-handed- the same as the medic that was just hired- and said he could wield a weapon equally well with either hand, but was faster with his left. Another note listed ‘he thinks compassion and kindness are weaknesses, and therefore appears cold and calculating at all times. I think this is an act. He’s sadistic and has a horrifying ego, but otherwise, I believe is normal. It will take a while for him to be nice to the others’. He had worked freelance for several agencies though his life, mostly in Madrid and Quebec. He ran a freelance, and supposedly badly-aligned, agency in Montreal for seven years before being tracked down and hired for this company. His reason given was that he stopped running on purpose when he saw who was following him. For obvious reasons, he would be the Spy.

Miss Pauling had been given another note the night before to put in this file, and didn’t get around to it until now. It had come to their attention- or more specifically, Marion’s, who had then notified them- that Lefevre was Jeremy’s estranged father, and that Lefevre was fully aware of this, but likely had neglected to mention it because he hadn’t yet come to terms with the news of hearing he had a twenty-some-odd child he didn’t know existed until Marion told him so the week previous. She had assumed he had told the company this, but notified them herself under the pretense ‘I guess he’s too quiet about his life to say, so I’ll have to tattle on him’. She added that Jeremy has no idea about any of this and that it would be better, for now, not to tell him until he was settled in to the job. His current belief was still that his father had died before he was born. Pauling nodded to herself as she read the note. She also agreed with the thought that Lefevre was unlikely to tell Jeremy this news himself, so the family secret was safe for now.

The next file was for Mick Mundy. Legally Michael, but he preferred the nickname much more and it took a bit of research on him before finding Mick wasn’t really his name. Thirty-six years old. As far as he was concerned he was Australian, though research revealed he was actually from New Zealand- if his appearance didn’t tip anyone off enough as it was- but didn’t know it. His parents were asked over the phone and simply said that a rocket had landed in their backyard one day with a baby in it. They didn’t know how old he was until they took him to a doctor and found he was about a year old, so they declared that day his birthday and kept him. His mother added that they please not tell him his origins. He had been raised Australian and was very proud about it. Pauling saw no reason not to comply. Other than that, Mick had worked as a highly skilled, self-taught freelance headhunter since the ‘ripe old age of sixteen, I think, who knows these days’. He was quiet if he could help it, though appeared to be of normal or higher intelligence. He answered most questions with one or two words and claimed he gets along perfectly fine with every type of person other than a liar, provided they keep him stocked with coffee at all times. ‘The medium kind. Not cheap but I don’t have expensive taste’. The interviewer agreed this wasn’t a tall order. One last note said ‘good luck with the spy guy’. Mundy, also for obvious reasons, would be the Sniper for the bunch.

Lastly was Kenneth Washington. A note at the top read ‘basically an idiot savant that’s generally friendly, amazingly stupid, sometimes violent, but good at strategic battle planning and being determined. Good enough for us I guess’. The interview didn’t reveal much aside from what the note had said. He suffered delusions almost as bad as Acothley’s, had applied to the army several times but was turned down every time due to mental health, but still kept up that he was a legitimate soldier and had served in World War Two. He had certainly battled in that area, it was just that he had shown up a few years late and run around killing random people. They couldn’t get any information about his family out of him. A note on the bottom said ‘he said he loves animals. Watch him to see if they love him back. If they do I don’t think he’ll be a problem’. For lack of a better description that wouldn’t enrage the man, he was hired as the team’s Soldier.

“Sorry to bother you, but...”

Pauling looked up to see a borderline scrawny man in a grey suit with red pinstripes standing before her, carrying his coat in his right arm and a cigarette in his left hand, clad in a black leather glove like the right. He stood out like a sore thumb on the cheerful morning by wearing a matching pinstripe vest, fully black shirt, and red tie with the suit. The various tattoos and scars mixed about on his arms didn’t help either.

“... you wouldn’t happen to know which terminal the flight from Boston is landing in, would you?”

“Boston? ... No, sorry. I’m here for someone from Nevada.”

“He wasn’t in Nevada, I looked. The person at the desk said he was coming in from Boston, so I assume he went to see his family.”

Pauling gave him a confused look for a few more seconds.

“... Oh! I’m sorry, I thought you might have read our files by now.” He swapped his coat to his left arm and extended his right. “Hugo Lefevre, nice to meet you.”

Pauling picked up the mess of papers on her lap and set them in a chair to her left, getting up to stand so she could properly introduce herself.

“Miss Pauling, nice to meet you too. I’m the new Administrative Assistant.”

“Yes, I read your file. Did you know who we were picking up today?”

Pauling sat back in her seat, and Lefevre took the seat to her right, leaving one empty between them. “No, and  _ you  _ told me you wouldn’t be in until next week.”

“I wasn’t going to be until this morning.”

“Did something happen?”

“Marion. She called me last night and said if I wasn’t here to pick Jeremy up she would hunt me down. Six hour flight from Montreal to Albuquerque, then a two hour drive here. They said my car would be delivered ‘later in the week’.” He scoffed.

“Who drove you?”

“The Australian. Well, I should say New Zealander, but still.”

“Mundy’s here?”

He nodded. “Getting coffee. He said he was already in Albuquerque for a day, thought he would stay and see if anyone else for the job showed up, give them a ride. I wish he hadn’t. I’ve never met anyone so disgusting.”

“I guess that explains why you don’t have a mask with you, then.”

Lefevre paused for a few seconds, making it clear he had completely forgotten that none of the mercs were supposed to know his identity or see his face.

“It’s fine. It’ll just be these two. I think we can manage that. I mean, I assume Marion has pictures of you somewhere. Jeremy has probably already seen what you look like.”

“Hm. I hope not.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds as Pauling picked her papers back up.

“Have your read our files yet?”

“Yes, just now. Have you?”

He looked slightly surprised she would see that coming. “Of course. On the flight over.”

“What’s your opinion on everyone?”

“Why? Am I the leader?”

“No. I’m just being polite.”

“I think you should have hired  _ actual  _ mercenaries. I mean, about three or four of us may do this job well enough, but... the mental and physical health of the rest seemed concerning.”

“We needed a specific set of skills. Obviously putting out an ad in the paper saying we needed murderers who had never been convicted of anything wouldn’t have worked.”

“You’re not forced to hire people who are clinically insane, though.”

“No, we’re not. But I have it on good faith everything will work out.”

“Some of these people have never killed before.”

“No, all of you have. Or, at least, have been investigated for it.”

“If you mean Finch’s statement in his interview that he had ‘offed loads of dudes in my day’, I assumed you understood what exaggeration was. Or, in his case, straight out lying.”

“Like I said. He was investigated for a murder in Vegas. It was assumed self defense, but they never had enough evidence to arrest anyone.”

“Just about anyone is capable of murder in self defense, Miss Pauling.”

“Oh, I never said I  _ believed  _ it was self defense. Official report from the morgue said the man had been strangled to death with someone’s bare hands. Only one set of shoe prints were found on the scene. Jeremy was hired as a scout due to his speed, but we’ll be giving him weapons that deal a general amount of damage, as well.”

“Despite the bare hands thing.”

“You saw Asimov’s picture, right? And that he loves his custom-built minigun? I don’t care how confident Jeremy thinks he is, he’s not taking  _ that  _ on bare-handed.”

“Alright. What’s the report on everyone else?”

“Mostly the same as you and Mundy. Either you’ve been doing it professionally and haven’t been caught, or there’s been one circumstance or another where a death is linked to you outside of the legal system. Ludwig has been killing people both by accident and on purpose for many years. Conagher was here mostly for his machines, and DeGroot for his bombs, but they’ve supposedly killed people by accident. And Acothley, Jesus.”

“Yes, I was going to ask. You think it’s safe to have one woman on a crew with eight men? I’m not saying I object to it, I’m just thinking...”

“You don’t want to have to run cleanup on any...  _ incidents _ .”

“Well, like I was saying, some of these people’s mental states worry me... not to mention we’re all murderers.  If I may be so crass. That, and I would prefer no one get hurt unless it’s us as a team hurting the other team, the people we’re  _ paid  _ to hurt. Yes?”

“I think it’s safe to say I’m prepared to let her burn someone alive in their sleep if she thinks she needs to.”

“Hm. Good point.”

“She mostly sticks to buildings. The only deaths linked to her have been accidental, though she didn’t show remorse in them. For the most part she’s generally childlike. We expect her to stay silent and avoid everyone, and possibly pick one person or two to be friends with.”

“Hm.”

A few more seconds of silence.

“I... suppose you haven’t met Jeremy yet, then.”

“Me? No, why?”

“A little birdie told the company you’re his father. I assume she told us right before she called you last night, actually.”

“Oh, of course she did...”

“We- as in, her and the company- have come to an agreement that it’ll be kept secret from him for as long as possible. Or, at least, until she’s ready to tell him herself.”

“I’m not allowed to tell him?”

“Do you  _ want  _ to tell him?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

“Fair enough.”

“By default we’re also keeping this quiet from the rest of the team members, for obvious reasons.”

“Loose lips sink ships.”

“Yep. And speaking of secrets, as far as anyone’s concerned, Acothley is male. We came to an agreement with her that since she likes to cover her face, if she decides she doesn’t want to reveal her identity with anyone, we’re fine with that. Just keep that in mind.”

“If I’m not paid to spill a secret, I won’t.”

“If you say so.”

Pauling leaned to one side to tuck her papers away. She turned back around just in time to almost collide with someone’s green-plaid-clad arms as they leaned on the seat between her and Lefevre from the row of seats with their backs to them.

“Get lost?” Lefevre asked.

“Nah. I’m a slow walker.” Mundy, presumably, didn’t bother to move as he offered to shake Pauling’s hand over her shoulder. “Gotta be the assistant, right? Mick Mundy, nice to meet ya.”

“Likewise. Your teammates aren’t supposed to know your name, by the way.”

“Oh, I know, I read my contract. But he knew it when I picked him up, so I went with it.”

“Where’s my coffee?”

Mundy lazily turned towards Lefevre while sipping the styrofoam cup in his hand. “ _ Your _ coffee?”

“Well, yes. It’s only customary to buy coffee for your guests.”

“Oh. Sorry. Didn't know I lived here now. Windows are kinda big for my liking, don’tcha think?”

Lefevre scowled a bit and turned to Pauling. “Would you like any?”

“No, thank you. I was never much of a coffee person.”

“Alright, well. Pardon me, then.”

Spy stood, grabbing his coat as he left.

“Other way, mate.”

“Hm?”

“Brew’s that way.” Mundy pointed behind the group. “Beside the place that sells pretzels.”

“Pretzels?”

“You know, the big ones. Soft dough ones. Usually have stuff to dip ‘em in, maybe they got cheese in ‘em.”

“Right. Thank you.”

Lefevre continued scowling in the designated direction.

“You two getting along?”

Mundy chuckled to himself. “ _ God _ no. He’s only being polite because someone else is here.”

“Oh.”

“When’re we gettin’ cloned?”

“Noticed that part of the contract, hunh.”

“Yep.”

“We’re waiting until everyone’s here first. We’ll show you the first base you’ll be living at as your real bodies, then take you to the secure location where you’ll be kept asleep until further notice. I’ll be sleeping too, if that’s any consolation.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about it. Not sure how it’ll go, but I think I’ve done crazier things than that. Though, I bruised my nail the other day-” he looked to his right thumb, sporting a subungual hematoma. “- caught it in my gun, y’know? Is that gonna be on my clone?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Alright. Who’re we picking up?”

“Scout. Flying in from Boston.”

“Spy said he lived in Vegas.”

“He does. I thought he was flying in from there too. Apparently not.”

They paused for a bit while Mundy sipped at his coffee. 

“You think he was born or made?”

“What do you mean?”

“Spy. He’s richer than God, right? You think his parents gave it to him, or he stole it? Or made it in some other nefarious way.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

In truth, Marion had told them quite a lot about Lefevre, including that he had grown up fairly impoverished. But the other mercenaries didn’t need to know that if Lefevre didn’t want to tell.

“You saw his arms, right?”

“I... suppose?”

“I assume most people who’re born rich don’t cover themselves in tattoos. Let alone bigass ones like his, Jesus. His right had a knife, couldn’t tell what was on his left, under the scar.”

“A gun, I think.”

“Oh. Could be.”

“Depends on the person, I guess.”

“God knows how old the scars are if they took the tattoos off.”

Marion had explained how she knew Lefevre back in the day. She also explained what he said when they met up again. He had faked his death to protect her family from one mafia or another roughly twenty years ago. To be exact, twenty-three. He had burned down the warehouse the thugs were currently holed up in and hadn’t expected to get out alive. This obviously meant either he had had the tattoos for a very long time, or had, for whatever reason, asked someone to tattoo him while avoiding the scars, which would have been odd but not out of the question.

Mundy took another sip of coffee and continued. “I asked him on the way over if he wears full suits to cover ‘em. He looked at me like I slapped him.” He chuckled to himself.

“Hmm.”

“I’m provoking him on purpose, by the way. I gotta see what he can take before he snaps  _ before  _ we end up in a bigger group of people, y’know? If I push a bloke’s buttons now, I’ll know what not to say later.”

“Interesting. I never thought of it like that.”

“Mm. Comes from a lack of social skills, trust me.”

“To be fair, he’s probably doing the same with you.”

“Oh, probably. He won’t get nothin’ though. I’ve been told I’m very mellow.”

“What’s yellow?”

Pauling turned to find Lefevre returning with a matching styrofoam cup in hand, sans cigarette.

“No, mellow. I was just sayin’ I’m mellow.”

“Ah, I see.”

He paused as he took a moment to remember where he had been sitting before finding a new spot one chair further away from Mundy than before.

“I asked about the flight, they said it would be landing within five minutes.”

Pauling gave a small sigh of relief. “Oh, that’s good.”

They chatted idly for another ten minutes before there was an announcement for a flight landing. They stood and gathered their things before casually making their way to the gate. The two mercenaries dumped their respective cups of coffee off in the nearest trash bin.

Mundy tapped Lefevre’s arm. “Said on the way over you knew the kid’s mum. You know him too?”

Lefevre turned towards Mundy as if he had no idea who he was. “Me? No, I’ve never met him.”

“Oughta get interesting then.”

“He doesn’t know I know his mother.”

“You don’t want him to know?”

“I don’t mind if he does. I expect her to tell him herself at some point if I don’t.”

“An’ you said they were going to hire her first?”

“Yes. She turned the job down and found me for the company.”

“Nice of her to do that.”

“Mm-hm.”

The three of them stood in a slightly awkward silence for a moment as people started filing in to the terminal. Lefevre started tapping his foot as they passed by.

“You know what the kid looks like, though.”

“In the sense that I’m a spy and I read his file, which had a picture of him in it, yes.”

“What are we lookin’ for, then?”

“Why do you need to know?”

Mundy scoffed. “Who, out of the three of us, do you think has the best eyesight?”

Lefevre glanced at Pauling, who was wearing glasses. He frowned slightly.

“I’m allowed to tell him, I assume. He’s going to meet him soon anyway.”

“Yeah, you can tell him. I don’t see anyone having a problem with that.”

“Let me think... light brown hair, length past his ears. Probably wearing a white t-shirt and jeans. Five-foot-eight.”

“That...” Mundy looked around as the people walking by. “... describes most people in this country, I think.”

“Do you want me to draw you a sketch? That’s the best I have. The picture was small.”

“He doesn’t look like any famous actors or nothin’?”

“He looks like his mother. Just different hair and eye color.”

“You, ah... wouldn’t happen to have a picture of her, then?”

“Wh- no, I don’t have a picture of her. There’s a carving of her on one of my guns, which, oddly enough, I don’t have with me right now.”

“You carved her on one of your guns but you didn’t bother to take a picture?”

“Well  _ I  _ didn’t carve her on the gun, good lord. And no, I don’t have a picture. She had the gun carved herself. She gave it to me when she found me last week.”

“Carved  _ herself  _ on a gun. Bloody hell, I’m startin’ to see why you like her.”

“Who said I like her?”

“The hour-long, one-sided conversation you had with me in the van on the way over about her said you did.”

Pauling started tuning the bickering out at that point. She scanned the room for anyone that might look like the very small picture included with Finch’s file. Every time she thought she spotted someone she ended up losing them in the crowd. There was one person, however, that stood out like a sore thumb. A young man probably about Finch’s age stood with his hands in his pockets a little bit away from the baggage claim. He was fully clad in a white striped baseball uniform, with a cap tucked in to one of his pockets. Hopefully Finch would be so easy to find. He too was looking around the room impatiently. He stopped when he looked in Pauling’s direction, though she couldn’t tell if he was staring at her or just something nearby.

Wait.

Pauling tucked a few folders between her legs and rummaged through them to find Finch’s file. She checked the picture by the baseball guy, covering the longer parts of his hair with her thumb. He must have been looking at her, because he appeared to frown a bit when she held something up to him.

“Uh, guys...”

Pauling remembered Finch’s mother mentioning that he was skilled in sports, and, being from Boston, mostly baseball. Considering Lefevre also had no concept of how to dress to blend in with a crowd, maybe a baseball uniform for the first day of a new job was to be expected. Fashion was apparently a highlight that ran in the family.

“Hey. Guys.”

She neglected to mention, however, in her call to the company and to Lefevre the night before, that Finch had cut his hair.

“ _ Guys. _ ”

“We hear ya, don’t worry. You see him?”

“Wait, she found him?”

“Yeah. He cut his hair.”

Lefevre leaned over from Mundy’s side to look in the same direction as Pauling. “Where?”

She pointed to the guy in uniform. He turned to see who might be behind him that she could be pointing at. She looked back to Lefevre and Mundy to check if they could see him.

Mundy’s brow furrowed. “Baseball kid?”

“Baseball kid.”

Lefevre looked less confused than entirely defeated. “Oh,  _ God _ .”

“What?”

“What do you mean ‘what’- he wore a  _ baseball uniform _ to his first day of work?”

“Mate. You wore a pinstripe suit with a black shirt. Whose cheap funeral did you get off from when I picked you up?”

“This suit cost three thousand dollars.”

“Ah, but does it  _ look  _ like it cost three grand? Because no, it doesn’t.”

Lefevre looked about ready to either diss his son within thirty seconds of first seeing him or punch Mundy. He looked to Pauling for guidance on which to do. She shook her head quickly, trying to remind him without words that no one was supposed to know about this bit of information. And that it was frowned upon to punch new coworkers. He sighed and took a step back.

She picked her folders back up and tucked them neatly under an arm. “If I leave you two alone will you survive?”

Mundy turned to Lefevre, then back again. “I’m good if he’s good. You let him keep any knives?”

Lefevre scoffed. “I don’t need weapons to kill a man.”

“Spy.”

“Yes?”

“Do you need to get arrested by airport security?”

“... Point taken. I’ll come with you.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll stay here with Sniper. I need to discuss a few things with Scout that you two can’t hear. If I get back and Sniper’s dead my first call is to Marion, understood?”

Lefevre scowled quite a bit at the last comment, but nodded anyway.

As Pauling walked away she was pretty sure she heard Mundy suggest Lefevre go in time out, but she was sure they could deal with it themselves.

Finch, on the other hand, looked more and more like a deer in headlights the closer she got.

“You’re Jeremy, right?” She extended a hand to shake. “Miss Pauling, I’m the Administrative Assistant. Nice to meet you. How was...”

She paused awkwardly, still waiting for him to respond. He was too busy staring at her to notice she was trying to introduce herself. After a few seconds he blinked quickly as if he had just woken up.

“Uh- yeah. Sorry.” He shook her hand quickly, then jammed it back in his pocket. The dog tags around his neck that hadn’t been visible before from so far away jingled as he did. “Long flight, y’know? I heard you. Miss Pauling. Nice- nice to meet you too.”

“Did your flight have turbulence? It came in a little late.”

“Uh... I guess so. I was asleep pretty much the whole way. Got up maybe an hour ago.”

“Ah, right. So... no offense, but you could’ve mentioned that you got your hair cut. The only picture we have of you had you with long hair.”

“I just got it cut yesterday. Didn’t really have time to call.”

“I see.”

“I mean, I woulda left it long, but... you know Ma. She wouldn’t let me in the door till I got it cut.”

“Right... well-”

“Weren’t you gonna hire her a few months ago?”

“Uh... you... weren’t supposed to know about that, but... yes. We had her track someone down for us.”

Right as Pauling thought the staring was getting a bit unnerving, Finch looked behind her and grimaced. “Wouldn’t happen to be the creepy lookin’ guy right behind you, would it?”

“What? Oh, for God’s sake-”

Lefevre almost looked genuinely hurt by the comment. “ _ Creepy? _ How am I creepy?”

“Who goes up to someone and stands behind them like that? Other than creepy people.”

“She knew I was there. I’ve been here all morning.”

“Or pedophiles.”

Pauling turned to look behind Lefevre. “Uh, where’s Sniper?”

“Alive, don’t worry.” He side-stepped her, extending a hand to Finch. “Hugo Lefevre, nice to meet you.”

“Uh, no, guys, you need to go by your work names-”

Finch ignored yet another waiting hand. “What’s my work name again?”

“Scout. You’re Scout. This is Spy. Sniper is... somewhere. He’s in a green plaid shirt-”

“He doesn’t know my name though, I don’t mind.”

“Oh, no, I know your name. It’s Jeremy Finch.”

“ _ Spy. _ ”

“No, it’s alright, Miss Pauling. I don’t care if he knows my name. I mean, he knows Ma, right? He’s the one she hired?”

“Yes, he is.”

Lefevre leaned towards her. “Is he supposed to know that?”

“No, he’s not.”

“You scarin’ the locals again, mate?” Mundy’s voice appeared behind them.

“Sniper! Where were you?”

He shrugged. “Took a walk so he wouldn’t kill me. You talked to the kid yet?”

“I-”

Pauling realized she wasn’t going to be able to talk at all until they left the terminal at this point, so she gave up with it.

“-I’ll talk with him once we get in the car.”

“Glad we found ya finally. I guess you’re supposed to call me Sniper.” Mundy didn’t bother with a handshake, thankfully.

“Or Mickey. He loves that name.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to go by-”

“ _ You’re not. _ ” 

“And I don’t go by Mickey, he’s just bein’ an ass today.”

“Uh... okay.”

Mundy patted Finch on the shoulder. “Must be lookin’ forward to gettin’ cloned, hunh?”

“Wait, gettin’ what?”

Pauling frowned. “Did you read your contract before you signed it?”

“Uh...”

Finch glanced around as if an answer that didn’t sound like a lie might be found on the walls somewhere.

“... ye-yeah, ‘course I did. Whole thing.”

“Mundy, do you see his bag? I’m not tall enough to see over the crowd.” Lefevre was trying to crane his neck to see past a few people but was clearly failing.

“What’s your bag look like, Stretch?”

Finch glanced to Pauling with a worried look, then back to Mundy. “I thought my name was Scout.”

Mundy chuckled. “Oh, just a nickname. Scout’s not stickin’ yet. I’ll have to think of something that doesn’t start with ‘s’, I guess. Where’s your bag?”

“Uh... just a black one. Duffel bag.”

“Just one?”

“Yeah.”

“Marion couldn’t find you a better one?”

“Who?”

Lefevre snorted a laugh loud enough that a few people standing nearby turned to see what the noise was. “You... don’t know your own mother’s name?”

“Oh. Right. Nah, I just bought this one. I don’t need it to look nice, I just need it to fit stuff in.”

“Does its job, I suppose. I prefer flashier things. So I can find them.”

Finch didn’t look very impressed with the comment, and took the higher path of ignoring it.

“Don’t listen to this git. Thinks he’s bloody James Bond’s lost French cousin.”

“James Bond? Excuse me? I am  _ not  _ James Bond.”

“Which is why I added ‘French cousin’ after that.”

“Bond isn’t even a spy. He’s some lunatic that runs around blowing people up and causing so much damage he should either be long since dead or long since fired-”

“Did I hit a nerve? This guy doesn’t even exist.”

“A nerve? I’ve been a spy since I was thirteen years old!”

“I know, you said so in the van.”

“My point is that...”

Lefevre halted the sparring match suddenly with a mildly terrified look on his face as he attempted to think up a point.

“That... you don’t like Hollywood?”

“ _ Of course _ I don’t like Hollywood, you have  _ no  _ idea the kind of people that get spat back out of there every few years, but that’s not my-”

“I’m sure they’re not advertising Bond as being a real life depiction of a spy. It’s a movie. First and foremost, it’s entertainment.”

“He was based off a real person, though, is what I’m getting at.”

“And I’m sure every time they make a movie about the War a real soldier gets mad about it somewhere. You’re not meant to take this stuff seriously, mate.”

Before this argument got too far, Pauling decided to step in. She doubted Lefevre would fall for a deflection, but she assumed he wouldn’t interrupt them if she deflected the other person arguing.

“Sniper, do you see Scout’s bag?”

“Ah...”

He looked around for a few seconds, gradually getting a concerned look.

“I... don’t see Scout himself, so... gonna go with a ‘no’.”

“He’s getting it. Over there.” Lefevre pointed towards the claim.

“Ah.”

“Okay, well. Sniper, you and Spy can take off if you’re ready. Scout’s riding with me.”

“Wait, you’re making me ride with him again?”

“He already drove you earlier, Spy. It’s just two hours to base. You’ll be fine.”

Lefevre looked a bit dumbfounded at this revelation as Mundy went past him. He stepped back and tapped his shoulder to make sure Lefevre knew he was leaving.

“Leavin’ without ya if you don’t come along, I hope you know that.”

“I think... I’m the single most unlucky person on Earth right now.”

“... Aren’t you filthy rich?”

“Hm. Yes. Good point.”

“Heh. Money can’t buy happiness, I guess.”

Lefevre put a not-so-friendly hand on Mundy’s shoulder in turn. “Well, I’d rather cry in one of my castles in France than in your camper van you call a home.” And then started walking. “You parked this way, yes?”

Mundy turned to Pauling. “Can I make him walk?”

“Any other day, maybe. Today it’s supposed to go over a hundred degrees.”

“France is warm enough to grow grapes, he’ll be fine.”

“Sniper, he’s in a three piece suit. Be nice to him for today. He wasn’t supposed to come in for another week, but someone called him in early. He’s just having a bad day.”

“If you say so.” Mundy sighed loudly. “Alright, well, if we never get there, you’ll know why.”

“You know where it is?”

“Place called Hydro, right?”

“Look for a dam.”

“Yep. Thanks.”

“We’ll see you there.”

Mundy waved a meager goodbye and jogged to catch up with Lefevre.

“They’re leaving?” Finch asked, returning with his bag over his shoulder. 

“Sniper drove them in his van. Which is lucky, come to think of it. I have a company truck, it only has the front seat.”

“We leaving too?”

“Yeah. You got everything?”

“Yeah.”

“Hat?”

He grabbed the cap out of one pocket and set it in its rightful place atop his head. 

“Yep.”

“Alright. Follow me.”

For the next hour or so, they made their way to the rickety old truck Pauling had been given from the company temporarily, made sure Spy and Sniper had left, and took off. Pauling decided to give Finch a little breathing room for a bit, so they sat in silence with the radio on for a good while. After the third time Mrs. Robinson played, Pauling broke the silence.

“So... you didn’t really read your contract before you signed it, did you.”

“I skimmed it. I get that we’ll be here for a long time. That we have to get along.”

“You get that we’re not the good guys, right?”

“I get that we’re all murderers. So I kinda assumed that.”

“You were all hired to fight a war over land. You’ll be cloned because it’s two brothers paying you, and we didn’t tell them that we could only find an odd number of you. So we’re making it in to eighteen instead of nine. Your clones will be a little brainwashed in to thinking they’re the real versions. One team will wear red, the other will wear blue. And then you’ll fight against yourselves with experimental weapons provided by one of our companies.”

“Alright.”

“And you got that we’ve all killed people?”

“Yeah. You too?”

“Now that I’ve been hired, yes.”

“Hunh.”

“Were you aware you had been investigated for murder in Vegas a couple years ago?”

“Nah, but I guess I’m not surprised.”

“Were you sober?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you know the guy?”

“Nah. He tried to mug me. Pretended he had a gun in his pocket. I checked him after, it was just his finger.”

“Do you regret it?”

He took a few seconds to answer this time. “... I dunno.”

“Never thought about it?”

“I have, I just... I get that I should... but I don’t.”

“Good.”

“That’s what you wanted to hear?”

“I wanted to hear the truth. If you had killed that guy accidentally and regretted it, this is the time to tell me. You won’t make it in this job if that’s the case. We need killers out here.”

“I don’t regret it.”

“Do you feel bad at all, or no?”

“... I guess I do a little, but... I sleep fine at night, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s good.”

The conversation stopped for a while. Simon & Garfunkle’s latest hit started playing once again.

“I never liked Mrs. Robinson.”

“Hm?”

“The song. It’s not bad, I just don’t like it much.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“From these two?”

“From anyone.”

“Eh... probably... It’s Not Unusual.”

“Tom Jones?”

“Yeah. He’s my favorite.”

“Nice. I like The Beatles.”

“Hm. They’re not bad.”

Another pause in the conversation. Pauling was starting to think this was a little odd. Maybe it was because there was no authority figure here to impress. She was only an assistant, after all. Either that or he had somehow managed to become shy on the way to the truck.

“I don’t say it to be rude, but you’re not really living up to your interview.”

“What did it say?”

“That you love to talk.”

“Oh. I do sometimes, sure. I’m just thinkin’... we’re probably not all gonna get along, are we.”

“I think you guys will after a week or two. Everyone will be new here.”

“The two guys we just picked up weren’t too happy, though.”

“Sniper’s fine with it all. He’s friendly enough. Spy wasn’t supposed to come in for another week, but your mother called him yesterday and had him come in today instead.”

“Why?”

“Not sure.” Pauling shrugged. She realized too late she probably should have just said something else had caused Spy to show up early, not specifically Scout’s mother.

“You think that’s why he’s an ass?”

“I think he’s an ass because he’s had a hard life. I mean, you can’t really be a nice person when you kill people for a living.”

“Maybe. But I mean... Ma does the same as him, and she’s no worse for wear.”

She didn’t fake her death and proceed to travel the world until she ended up running an agency-gone-crime-syndicate for seven years in Montreal, though.

“He mentioned his car wouldn’t be in for a while. He might be mad about that. I know it’s not about anything you or Sniper did, you haven’t done anything at all yet.”

“You talked to them before I landed?”

“A little, yeah. I think you’ll all get along fine, just give it a few days and a few full nights of sleep.”

“I hope so. Ma hates it when I fight with people she knows. I told her to stop telling everyone me an’ my brothers are all angels, but she won’t. I mean, they’re gonna find out half of ‘em were in a gang when they were younger, or that my tags are fake ‘cuz she got ‘em off a dead guy at one time, or that none of us got the same dad... well, I mean, the twins an’ triplets do, obviously-”

Alas, the interview was starting to repeat itself now that she had mentioned it.

“-but she acts like we’re not human or something. And of course we are. We’re allowed to make mistakes. I was never in those gangs either. They didn’t do nothin’ other than drink and smoke on a street corner, but still.”

“You just killed someone on your own instead.”

“Yeah. I mean, she doesn’t know about that, but yeah. I regret making the mistake of goin’ too far, but... I’m not perfect, and I don’t regret killin’ the guy.”

Scout continued on about his life until they reached their destination at the base called Hydro, situated behind a dam in the New Mexican desert. She parked a few feet away from Sniper’s truck. Pauling could hear them talking as she gathered up her papers. Scout got out and went to walk with them, checking back a few times to make sure Pauling was still going with them.

“I swear to God if I hear Mrs. Robinson one more  _ fucking  _ time I’ll hunt down the person running the radio station and shoot them in the kneecap.”

Sniper merely chuckled at Spy. “I think it’s alright. Not the best, but alright.”

“Gets annoying, though.” Scout scuffed a cleat against the dirt. “Would’ve been better if they didn’t play it every other song.”

“The vote’s two to one, Mundy. That settles it. We’re off to kill the DJ when we get a day to ourselves.”

“Don’t kill any civilians, Spy, please. You’re not paid for that.”

“Will I get fired if I do?”

“Probably, yes. Especially for something that petty.”

“Hm.”

“ _ You _ asked for the radio, mate. You could’ve asked to switch it any time.”

“I thought you were listening to it.”

“Well, it’s not like that was the first time I heard it. And it’s not like they won’t play it again later.”

Spy paused on an overpass to light a new cigarette. The rest paused with him. “Well. We’ll wait a few days. If they’re still playing it, I’ll think about it.”

Scout turned to find Pauling standing behind them, counting folders to make sure one didn’t get left somewhere. 

“Miss Paulin’, why are we behind a dam?”

“This is your home base. It needs to be hidden somewhere where the government or other people won’t find it easily.”

“Must flood sometimes, though.”

“That’s what the channels are for.”

“They’re not that deep, though.”

“We’re in the desert. This is the most it ever floods. Also, these aren’t the only channels.”

“Hunh.”

“Ain’t Boston by the ocean? I don’t see you bein’ afraid of water.”

“No, I’m not. I was just wonderin’.”

Spy finished with trying to get his lighter to work outside, and tapped Scout’s shoulder. “Did you live by the bay for a long time, or no?”

“Who said I lived by the bay?”

“It’s in your file.”

It wasn’t, actually, or at least Pauling didn’t think it was. Then again, Spy would probably remember visiting someone near the ocean, even if it was a long time ago.

“Is he supposed to read my file?”

Pauling shrugged. “He’s a Spy.”

“Well... yeah, I guess. We lived there till I moved out.”

“So your mother’s still in the area?”

“Why do you need to know where she lives? She doesn’t work here. Hell, why do you need to know where _ I _ live?”

“You live just outside Vegas, not in Boston.”

“Still, what’s that got to do with anything? You don’t need to know it.”

“I don’t, I was just curious.”

“Where’s yours live?”

“My what?”

“Mother.”

“Six feet underground.”

“Why would she live underground? Do people live underground in France? I’ve never been there, so-”

“He means she’s dead, kid. Good lord.”

“Oh. Well, come on, you gotta be more clear about shit like that. Sorry, though.”

“Quite alright, she’s been dead for a long time.”

“You, Sniper?”

“Both parents back in Australia. Haven’t seen ‘em in a while, though. But I call ‘em when I can.”

“Oh, yeah, I do that too.”

“No, I mean I  _ actually  _ call them, not promise to call and then call the day before Christmas so I can borrow money.”

“I’ll have you know I call for money on my  _ birthday _ . I wouldn’t need to call on Christmas, everyone has to go visit in person on Christmas. It’s a rule.”

Spy scoffed. “That’s a horrible argument. Your birthday is a month before Christmas. It doesn’t count.”

“Sure it does! It’s like an early Christmas. But it’s just for me.”

Sniper grinned to himself suddenly. “Funny, I thought Jesus had a beard.”

“What?”

“Nothin’. Nevermind.”

“Don’t be cruel, Mundy. Scout being Jesus would imply his father actually cares about his wellbeing.”

“Well, the guy’s dead, so I don’t see him carin’ much.”

“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, I was just kiddin. An’ Spy, you lay off the kid. It’s all our first day here, and we’re not supposed to be fightin’ with eachother. Or I guess we are, but that’s not till we get cloned.”

“Fine, yes, I apologize. How did he die?”

Spy glanced to Pauling for a second. She tried to shake her head quickly to get him to stop asking about Scout’s family, but he paid no mind.

Scout shrugged. “Ma never said much. He was in a building while it exploded, I guess. She always said it like he was saving someone, but he wasn’t a firefighter or nothin’. I assumed he was a guy she knew from being a spy.”

“Hm.”

“I mean, I’m not exactly tore up about it. I never met him.”

“She must have pictures, though.”

“Nah. If she did she got rid of them.”

“You don’t have any mementos?”

“Nah. I mean, the guy blew up, what would he leave behind?”

“You have a point.”

“I’d look to learn about him in records or somethin’, but I don’t know his name either.”

“You know I know your mother, right?”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”

“I can help you look him up. I’m a spy, I’m good at finding people.”

“Eh... I’ll have to think about it, but thanks for the offer.”

“Take as long as you need. I assume we’ll be busy for the next few days anyway.”

It was an admittedly clever move to suggest the idea to Scout that he might be able to learn his father’s identity soon, but that didn't make it any less risky, and that didn’t make Pauling like it.

“Ah... yeah, you guys need to check the base over, actually. It was just fumigated a couple days ago. You’ll have to go around and open the windows back up.”

“How many windows?”

“As many as it takes to prevent you from dying in your sleep from the fumes.”

“So... just the ones by our rooms?”

“No. The whole base.”

“Dang. Alright.”

“Actually, where are our rooms?”

“Spy should know.”

“Should I?”

“I assumed you had read the blueprints.”

“No, not yet.”

“Well. They’re in that building over there, I think. I need to get going, though. You can call me if you can’t find it by sunset.”

“Fair enough. I’m sure we’ll manage. Have a nice trip.”

“Are you comin’ back tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I need to drive Pyro out here.”

“Oh. Okay, well, that’s.. That’s good.”

“Alright. Did you get everything out of the truck?”

“Yeah.”

“Got your hat?”

Scout patted the top of his head to find it missing. “Ah...”

As he turned to look on the ground, Spy grabbed it from its place sticking out of the pack slung over Scout’s back. He slapped it backwards on Scout’s head.

“Got it.”

“Where?”

“Your bag.”

“Oh. Thanks. Yeah, Miss Pauling, I got it.”

“Alright. I’ll see you guys later!”

The three of them watched as Pauling drove off.

“Scout, it’s not polite to stare.”

“I wasn’t starin’ at her. I... was making sure I remembered what she looked like.”

“She just said she’d be back tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“It’s hopeless, mate, don’t bother with him. We gotta start on the windows. It’s almost eleven.”

“We’re not starting until we eat. Or at least get some water. We’ll get heat stroke if we don’t.”

“If you say so. You know where the food is?”

“In town, probably.”

“What town?”

“There’s one not too far from here. Small, but I’m sure there’s some sort of diner there we can go to.”

“You seem to know the area pretty well.”

“I do my research.”

“Do you know the blueprints or were you lying to her, by the way?”

“I wasn’t lying, I haven’t read them yet. I do have them in my pocket, though.”

“Few inches shy of havin’ it right up your sleeve, I should’ve known.”

“Scout, what do you think?”

“Of the blueprints?”

“Of lunch.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’d take some lunch.”

“Alright. Mick, you’re driving?”

“Well, I’m not lettin’ you drive, that’s for sure.”

“Alright. Scout, you can leave your bag.”

“Nah, I don’t want it to get stolen.”

“By who? We’re the only ones here.”

“I can’t put it inside yet, it might rain out.”

“It won’t rain, just leave it. Here, let me see it-”

“No, come on-”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll just set it here. I’ll put my coat over it, so it doesn’t get dirty.”

“You sure? You said it was expensive.”

“It is. I’m just trying to be nice before I pass out. Does this suit look cool to you?”

“Nah, looks kinda cheap, but it’s up to you what you wear.”

“I meant the temperature, but thank you for your opinion.”

“Oh. Nah, I guess it wouldn’t be that cool.”

Sniper, already back in his van, called out to them. “Am I gettin’ takeaway or what? I thought you were coming.”

“We are, just hold on.”

“Spy says it’s gonna rain, we’re makin’ sure my bag doesn’t get wet.”

“Rain? It’s not gonna rain, what are you talking about?”

“Scout,  _ you  _ said it was going to rain.”

“I thought you said it, though.”

“No.”

“Whatever. I just bought that bag, I just don’t want anythin’ to happen to it.”

“Nothing will happen to it. Now get in the van.” Spy walked off towards the only vehicle left.

“Hm... should I leave my hat?”

“ _ Scout _ .”

“Yeah, yeah, fine. It’s on your coat, I’m gettin’ in. I call shotgun.”

“We both have shotgun, there’s only one seat.”

“None in the back?”

“Not unless you want to brave where he quote-unquote ‘lives’.”

“He  _ lives  _ in the van?”

“If you can call that living, yes.”

“Guys, I can hear you. Yes, I live in the van.”

“We weren’t sayin’ nothin’ about it. You live where you want.”

“Get in before I take off without you. Before you argue, Spy gets the window.”

Scout hopped in and slid to the middle of the wide seat.

“Alright, cool. I get the radio.”

“Leave it off, Scout, I’m sick of that song.”

“I can switch around for something else.”

“You said that belt was broken, Spy?”

“Hm?”

“Your seatbelt?”

“Yeah, it’s shot.”

“Alright, well, hang on to somethin’. The brakes give out like... once a week.”

“You’re joking.”

Sniper rolled his eyes. “Of  _ course  _ I’m joking.”

“Thank God.”

“They give out  _ sometimes _ , not once a week.”

“Oh, lord.”

Sniper managed to pull back out of the driveway without incident.

“I bet I can find a station without that song.”

“No, Scout, you can’t.”

“Bet you ten bucks. No- twenty. I bet you twenty.”

“No.”

“I’ll raise you twenty. Go for it kid.”

“ _ Mundy _ , I thought you had more mercy than that.”

“My van, my rules.”

“The bet is forty, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Scout, I’ll hand you a fifty right now if you don’t touch the radio.”

Scout paused with his hand almost on a dial.

“Kid. Either it’s fifty bucks, or it’s getting to watch him squirm till we find the town.”

“... Even hundred and you got a deal.”

“A  _ hundred? _ No, that’s stupid.”

“I’m turnin’ it on, then-”

“No, I’m giving you fifty-”

“Nah, too late, I just gotta find the right dial-”

“Scout, I’m on the edge. Don’t push me.”

“Sniper, is it this one?”

“Nah, one to the left.”

“Fine. Fine. I accept. If you ever complain that I never gave you anything, I’m demanding it back plus tax, you understand?”

“Lemme see it first.”

Spy dug out his wallet and handed Scout the bills.

“Hah, he wasn’t kiddin’. Great. Thanks man.”

“Mate, you’ve got some serious lack of backbone for a certified killer.” Sniper laughed in Spy’s general direction. Then he elbowed Scout. “You’re payin’ for lunch then, right?”

“I mean, yeah, I could. The rest of my wallet’s in my bag, though.”

“Scout, it’s just going to be some little diner or fast food place. We shouldn’t even need a full fifty.”

“You sure? You must not know my brothers, they’d rob me for every penny just outta spite.”

“I do know them, actually, but I can guarantee you I’m not nearly as petty.”

“Alright. That’s good.”

They sat in silence for a moment on the road.

“... Bet you twenty the diner’s gonna have Mrs. Robinson playing when we get there.”

“Scout, for the love of  _ God _ , I just handed you-”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Jeez.”


End file.
